


baby you're a haunted house

by AdorabloodthirstyKitty



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pining, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:22:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorabloodthirstyKitty/pseuds/AdorabloodthirstyKitty
Summary: Better find another superstition
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 8





	baby you're a haunted house

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you gotta write pining Crowley to cope. also using a snippet from my own poetry that I tweaked a bit so Please Be Nice

Crowley never would have thought the unpocalypse would be quite so lonely.

And technically, realistically, he isn't alone. He's at the bookshop more often than his own flat, flipping through old books and perfecting his sprawl on Azirapahale's abysmally lumpy couch. His angel is always nearby, always there to chat and bicker and drink with, always there to dine with, go to plays with. But no matter how many days of the week, month, year, he has Aziraphale almost completely to himself, his blackhole heart still craves more. His hands still itch to grab hold of his hand, fingers twitching to brush against the exposed wrist, the back of a hand. He _wants_ and he _craves_ and he _needs_ , but it's something he knows, even without Heaven and Hell breathing down their necks, that he could never have. This sweetness that claws at the back of his throat, threatening to suffocate him with a look, a smile, the soft tones Aziraphale uses occasionally, turning his words to honey, to gold.

(He remembers being golden. He remembers his liquid gold eyes, remembers bright, blinding white. He remembers being something precious.)

He thought he would be able to get over this, after 6,000 years. But no matter how long a gap between their interactions, no matter what he's said or done, no matter what Aziraphale has said and done, he's still tripping over the angel with puppydog love turning his black heart into something far too soft and far too gooey for his taste. He's written bloody _poetry_ , sappy and lovestruck, heartbroken and revealing. He'd hoped it would help, to get the words out, to put them somewhere where he wouldn't accidentally say them. Instead he has tomes, endless pages of his heart bled out on parchment, on paper. He has a collection, millennia old, that could rival Azirapahale's.

It's another slow, molasses day spent stretched akimbo across the couch in the backroom, book and pen in hand. Even if he nearly burns every poem he's ever written, even if he looks back at them with a sneer, it helps. Putting words to his thoughts, letting his feelings and musings manifest as black ink staining paper. This book still has blank pages, will continue to have blank pages until he moves on to another. He has one for every few years, depending on how much he writes over the years. This year alone takes up dozens of pages, all flowery prose with hints of barbs, of sharp thorns.

_This twig sculpture heart_

_This brittle, fragile thing I am_

_Am I something to be exorcised?_

_Am I a ghost_

_Still haunting you?_

_Will you set me free?_

He eyes the words, glaring at them darkly as if they'd done him personal insult, that they'd have the nerve to show even a hint of what he feels. He sighs, letting the ink dry before snapping the book shut and tucking it between his thigh and the back of the couch his leg is currently thrown over, keeping it hidden, keeping it safe. He swears Aziraphale can sense books in his presence, can hear their words calling to him more clearly than any heavenly choir or siren's song. He's just glad that Aziraphale hasn't yet had a snoop into his collection; he'd discorporate out of embarrassment and nerves if Aziraphale read even one line of the rubbish he's written over the years.

Even if some of it isn't as rubbish as others.

Even if sometimes, fleetingly, he wonders what Aziraphale's reaction would be, poring over endless poems in languages ancient and forgotten, new but familiar. Endless words, all about him.

He sighs, head tipped back until it thunks back against the arm of the sofa, listening as Aziraphale's quill scratches against parchment as he catalogs all of the new inventory Adam added to his collection. The sound is soothing, the warmth of the backroom and the quiet writing, the occasional hum from the angel, is quickly lulling him into a syrupy daze. He could go for a nap, as long as the angel is working. He'll spend hours in the main shop if he can; plenty of time for a quick nap.

Crowley sighs, letting the sound of the angel he loves in the next room lull him into a deep sleep.

-

He wakes slowly.

He slides into consciousness like silk sheets, groaning quietly as he arches his back, lifts arms overhead, and gives a good stretch. He's sleepwarm and content, all but oozing into the lumps and bumps of the ancient couch beneath him, more snake than human-shaped being. He wonders, idly, what time it is, if he skipped a day sleeping by accident. Checks his wristwatch; still today, just a couple hours. Not too bad.

He realizes, belatedly, that he doesn't hear Aziraphale writing in the other room. Doesn't hear his quiet footsteps, his gentle humming. It's very, very quiet, and immediately Crowley's eyes fly open, hackles rising, as he pulls himself up to search for his angel.

He finds him, much more quickly than he thought he would, sitting primly in the armchair by the couch. One leg crossed over the other, book in hand, spectacles perched at the end of an upturned nose. Crowley sinks back against the couch, scooting to sit up slightly as he waits for Azirapahle to notice his return to consciousness, smile curling the corner of his mouth when Aziraphale emotes, a hand fluttering to his chest, a quiet whisper of a laugh. Crowley smiles, watching Aziraphale, as he looks to the title of the book, wondering what's making Aziraphale look so soft, what has him so utterly fixated.

Only to find a very blank, very familiar cover: the cover of his latest book of poems.

Crowley's syrupy, happy mood immediately plummets into mindless, absolute panic.

"Zira," he rasps, throat tight. Azirapahle meets his gaze, and it is immediately a thousand times worse because Aziraphale's eyes are shining and damp and Crowley needs to leave _**now-**_

"My _dear_ ," Aziraphale breathes, voice incredibly soft, and Crowley can't do this, can't stand that soft, gentle gaze, the way his voice caresses his name like something precious, something pure and good. He can't, he _**can't-**_

He doesn't realize he's panicking until Aziraphale is suddenly much closer, gentle hands on his arms, making the cushions at his side dip as he sits in his space, grabbing hold of his raised arms, held up to defend himself, to hide, to shield from that gaze that's too much. Aziraphale holds him gently, like glass, and his eyes are filled to the brim with something tender that leaves Crowley feeling raw and exposed.

"I'm so sorry, my dear. If I had known it was yours I would never have snooped; I was just about to put it away but realized it was unfamiliar, so I peeked at the first couple pages. But Crowley, this is..."

His thumbs run over his arms, shift to pull them down, to hold Crowley's hands. Crowley let's him, would let him do anything he liked if only he asked.

"This is _beautiful_ , my dear," Aziraphale murmurs, and that tone, the way he smiles at Crowley, makes him feel golden, makes him feel pure. Like he hasn't been pining and writing the words of his heart in his own blood for nothing, like the heart of him in these pages, in these books and words of his, aren't something to be ashamed of.

Like this love is something good, something pure.

He isn't sure who leans in. Isn't sure how they meet, two becoming one, but he does know that Aziraphale's lips are soft, are gentle. That the feeling of his angel surging forward after a few tentative, soft brushes of lips feels like creating stars, feels like he's going supernova. Two stars crashing together and becoming something more.

**Author's Note:**

> if you'd like an absolutely beautiful poet Crowley fic I just read [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20779427) while editing this and it was So Sweet and Good and Beautiful, go give it some love because it deserves it


End file.
